A Pause
by Gentle Breezes
Summary: Drabble-fics. Chapter 2: It's no longer about just slavery or freedom. It's about a home. Timeline and Hawke left up to interpretation.
1. Ghosts and Regrets

**Disclaimer: **Dragon Age II and its characters belongs to EA and Bioware

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When the moon is swells in the sky and the clouds are sparse, Hawke takes flight.

The duty of a Champion is heavy on the shoulders of the one who carries it, surrounded by companions but always the one to bear the most of this burden. There is hardly any running from it. But there is sometimes a moment or two to catch one's breath, and walk the old paths of an old life before heroism or duty mattered.

Fenris picks her escapes out in the pieces of Varric's stories without realizing until, one night when she slips away from camp and he follows, he comes across her in the tall grass. He recognizes the flow of words that describe the curve of her arms, the blade cold as the stars, the face that is always turned away. He witnesses the stocky, strict training of the warrior become a dance in every sinew, too practiced to be nothing less than age-old skill and memory. In the wind, the sword makes mournful sounds, her gaze cast down to the ground, white silk and lilies and ghosts of things he doesn't know about her anymore fluttering along. It is beautiful and frightening to watch. With each movement she seems to slip from the world of mortals into the Fade, not quite here, not quite there either. If she were but to glance up at him he knows he would die, cut down by eyes that he's forgotten to understand. And to look away? She might dissolve into mist, or be snatched up by things out of his control and always in motion.

So he sits, and watches, and longs for things as elusive as the ribbons in her hair.

He will not take anything precious from her. Not again.

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**A/N: **There's a lot about the relationship between Fenris and Hawke that I find simultaneously fascinating and frustrating, which is probably why it's on the brain every so often. The potential is vast. May become an eventual dumping ground for F!Hawke/Fenris things later. Who knows?


	2. The Road Home

There are times when, inevitably, Fenris' path diverges from hers. It's far easier to part now, no longer clinging to shadows and empty buildings and the near-hopeless 'maybes' of the past. He doesn't sit nervous all day should she stroll through the market or visit Merrill in the Alienage without him. If she goes out further, he at least has the comfort of knowing that she has survived worse than a few bandits or a storm. He bears her absences quite well, as he always has.

That he doesn't actually _like_ her absence is besides the point. He can manage. He's not that far gone.

Once in a while their positions reverse. There will be that occasional hint of slavers roaming the ports further down the coast, or a bounty of interest, and he has no choice but to walk outside the boundaries of the neighborhood. She encourages this of course. He knows she'd want him to feel free to go his own way, just for a little while. He also vaguely registers that this might be good for him.

So whenever the need rises he heeds the call, setting off with a kiss still warming each cheek against oppressive summer heat or winter ice, the drawstrings of his pack curled between clawed fingers with the hope that he will not be long. Each sword stroke, each arrow that flies, will bring him closer to returning. It's all he can do not to run away when it's time to be paid, and the moment the gold no longer clinks into his waiting hands he is riding the wind toward Kirkwall with not a care for his aching feet.

Many times before, he has heeded the call of masters and demands in the same fashion, rearranging his life to fit the whims of the one who had once owned him. But it is no longer about freedom or slavery, nor is it even about loyalty or freedom.

It is about home. Once nothing more than a cynical, bitter dream, it has materialized into four walls, a cheerful fire, and the eyes a woman with a dancing smile and a red streak across the bridge of her nose, which he kisses fondly every time he comes back. Even if it takes more than just a few days, he knows he will end up there again. So he charges through the twilight until he sees the windows that encase their dreams and secrets, into the arms of the one who calls him an old name with a new meaning every time she speaks.

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**A/N: **So, I guess this is to become a dropbox for whatever ideas I might get!

I promise nothing in the form of consistent updates. This will just be for whenever I get inspiration. Also, I'm bound to come back and make a million edits, so honest feedback is welcome.


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